The Nature of Winchesters
by Amaeryl o Cionaoith
Summary: Sam and Dean have a mess to clean up: the apocalypse is underway and Lucifer is walking around. With doubts hanging over their heads, Bobby sends them to one being that he believes can help: a being who will explain the nature of Winchesters...


A/N: I own nothing of course. Please feel free to critique at will. Also, I apologize in advance for any grammatical, spelling, or research errors.

Cheers

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The Nature of Winchesters

Dean threw the door of his favored Impala shut with a grumble as Sam stepped easily out of the passenger side. The two brothers gazed around at their surroundings, their sharp hazel-green eyes taking in everything at a glance, their brains working overtime despite Dean's foul mood and Sam's apparent nonchalance.

"This entire job is bunk, man." Dean growled as he circled around to the back of the car and jerked the trunk open with a creak. He surveyed the depleted supplies within and groaned, thinking his wallet was too light already. "I mean, why couldn't Bobby do it?"

"He said he's too busy with a goblin thing over in Wichita." Sam reminded his brother patiently, checking his PDA for any messages from their father's old friend. Bobby had become like an uncle to the boys, and after John's death a few years previous, had become for Sam more of a father figure than their dad ever was. Though both the Winchester sons were loyal to their late father, Dean so intensely loyal it caused problems at times, Sam had to admit he viewed Bobby as more of a father than John had ever been.

"Right, because hunting goblins and witch covens is going to help us track down Lucifer before this whole Apocalypse thing wipes out the last city on the map…" Dean muttered, rooting through the supplies until he found the small parcel Bobby had given them. "Silver huh?"

"Valued more than gold in some cultures." Sam nodded his affirmation. Dean shook the little leather coin-purse and cocked a questioning brow.

"This broad is seriously behind the times then." He grumbled and with the purse in hand, closed the trunk with a noisy groan. He turned and looked up at the daunting, decrepit old building.

It sat square in the fifth lot of a street full of decrepit buildings. Beside it, the empty space was scattered with remnants of charred wood and broken glass, testament that a building had once stood there and had been destroyed by fire. The whole structure seemed to lean perilously outward, like it sat waiting to engulf the sidewalk with its rickety front porch and little overhanging roof. The timbers that made up the walls were warped, and had once been painted a lovely light brown, but that paint was now peeling and flaking off.

Above the old black-painted door, hung the lopsided sign that proclaimed the name of the business housed within the ramshackle hut: The Blindman's Window.

Dean sniffed experimentally as he stepped onto the front balcony of the little tavern. It was a saloon in the most ancient style the brothers had ever seen, and the door protested loudly as it scraped against the deck-boards to allow them entrance to the long-forgotten hovel.

"Man, I've been in some dives in my day," Dean breathed to Sam as the two brothers stood just inside the entrance, surveying the scattered tables and patrons as dusty as the shelves displaying relics of a long-forgotten past.

Sam ignored his cynical brother and stepped towards the bar, each floorboard creaking under his tall frame.

"Ho there!" The barman, glancing up from the Saturday-issue of the local paper grinned, bearing a gap between his front teeth. Dean winced, but followed Sam forward, leaning against the bar. "What can I get for you two?"

"I'll take a beer." Dean answered as Sam opened his mouth to speak.

"Here you go then." The barman brought up a dusty green-glass bottle without a label. "Home-brew, unfortunately, we don't get shipments of the cheap stuff. Prefer to make it ourselves…" The barman announced proudly.

"I'll try anything once." Dean nodded as the Barman cracked the lid on the bottle and a fine mist rose out of the container. "I'm surprised you're still open, most of the other businesses in town have, uh, closed their doors."

"Bound to happen, what with the apocalypse coming on and such." The Barman nodded simply. Sam and Dean avoided exchanging confused looks, but Sam shifted his weight.

"Apocalypse? That's a little extreme don't you think?" Sam pointed out. "Its just a recession…"

"I'm not talking about the economy, Sam." The Barman shook his head, and chuckled a little at the surprised look on Sam's face. Dean glanced up from digging in his wallet. "It's on the house, Dean, ain't no use taking money if I'm not going to be around to spend it."

"You know us?" Sam asked, wondering if perhaps they'd come through this dive in their childhood and the Barkeep had that decent a memory.

"I've heard of you. Ellen Harvelle called and mentioned that Bobby might send you out our way." The Barman grinned. Dean took a sip of his beer, rolled the liquid around in his mouth a little and glared down at the bottle with suspicion. "How do you like that beer, Dean?"

"It's fantastic!" Dean's eyebrows arched up in utter shock. "You made this?"

"Syr did." The Barman nodded with a smile. "It ain't poisonous, she knows better than to try and kill hunters, especially the Winchester boys. Gotta figure that two men with your reputations might be a little harder to kill than most others 'round here."

"This is…sinful." Dean chortled, taking another swig of the beer. Sam turned to the bartender, but he had already cracked two more bottles, one for Sam, and one for himself. "Amazing."

"She's got a talent for that kind of thing." The barkeep nodded.

"So you seem to know your way around our territory." Sam said conversationally.

"I knew Bill Harvelle quite well, his wife and daughter too. Bobby is an old friend of course, would have figured he'd call before sending you two out here. He should have figured out that Syr doesn't take well to surprises…"

"Well then she can't be much of a psychic if she didn't see us coming." Dean joked.

"I saw your coming, Dean Winchester, six years, six months, and six days before you were conceived." Purred a voice from behind the boys. The two brothers turned to find a young woman standing between the mix-matched tables, leaning on a large buckthorn stick and dressed in a pale green dress. "I saw your coming as well, Samuel." A knowing smile twitched the corners of the woman's mouth. "That was the last thing I ever saw when it came to Mary's family."

The brothers stood there stunned for a moment, gazing at the strange woman. She was young to the look, but everything about her radiated the calm assurance of age. She used the buckthorn staff to maneuver her way through the dim interior, but it was clear that she was blind.

"You-you knew our mom?" Sam marveled. It had only been recently that the brothers had discovered their mother had been a hunter before she even met John, that she'd, in fact, come from a long line of hunters.

"And your grandfather and his grandfather as well." The girl nodded sagely, her voice seemed to echo around the dim interior. "But we are less concerned with history and the past today. Today we must look to the future, and the things that you will need to help you achieve your task."

"My task is done." Sam murmured bitterly. "I'm to blame for this."

"You are not to blame." Syr shook her beautiful dark hair, an errant strand falling in front of her eyes. She stepped forward, coming so close that Dean, fuzzy from the home-brew, could smell the faint hints of lavender and mint rolling off her hair. She smelled of all the jewels of springtime, and her iridescent, pale skin seemed lit with an inner light as she passed through the gloom and dusty shadows.

Syr stopped directly in front of Sam, her face tilted up, her white-fogged eyes, the same pale green as her dress: a rumor of the violence of the color behind the film of blindness, boring into him. Sam found his gaze locked on that unseeing stare, unable to tear his face away.

"Samuel Winchester, the breaking of the first seal does not rest on your head." Her voice rumbled from within her, commanding and seductive at once. Sam felt his spirits lift a little: he wanted so badly to believe her.

Beside his brother, Dean shuffled, the weight of her words crashing down around him. The first seal had been his fault, his crime. He had given in to temptation in the Pit, he had fallen to slavery and the torture of souls under a blade handed to him by the devil Alistair. The apocalypse was his fault. The Angels had told him so.

"The angels are wrong, Dean." Syr murmured, reaching out with a slow, sure hand to rest it upon his shoulder. He gazed at her, startled, as she fixed that penetrating stare on him. The door to the bar opened and a few old-timers stumbled in. They took in the scene at a glance, and one immediately reached for his waistband, a frown on his face.

"It's all right, Barley." The barkeep spoke up as Sam noted the glint of a pistol-grip in the man's hand. "They're expected. Bobby Singer sent them over."

"Those are them Winchester boys then?" The aged hunter snarled while his friends stumbled over to their seats at one of the rickety tables. "Wasn't enough that you let that devil's gate get open? Had to go and release Lucifer himself on the world?"

The decrepit old hunter hobbled over, his bony chin thrust out above the collar of his light blue shirt. He glared with beady black eyes at the two brothers, and Sam fell back a step. The woman whirled, her shoulders tensed, and she stepped directly into the old man's path, forcing him to stop. The lighting in the dim bar flickered as her voice rose angrily.

"_You_ cannot push blame on these boys. Their destinies have been decided since the dawn of time itself! The blame must lay with all those who _knew_ this was coming and yet did nothing to prevent it for fear of their own lives being lost! For every ounce of guilt you lay upon their shoulders, your own trepidation will be doubled when you find yourself backed into a corner, with no one but these boys to help you out. Pray then, Barley Hudson, that they take mercy upon you and save your coward's skin!"

The ferocity of her voice coupled with the palatable power emulating from her slight form forced the old man to fall back a step, and he paled in fear. Sam and Dean stood there, stunned, watching as the pale skin of the maiden seemed to _glow_ with her ferocity, and the flickering lights wavered. In the far corner, over the table where two other old men sat, a bulb burst in a shower of sparks and glass, causing alarm.

"I will speak with you later concerning your place in this." Syr snarled to the man, now cowering back against the nearest table, unable to escape. "You will _not_ leave this place without speaking to me at length." The power of her command shook the foundations, and dust fell in little plumes from the rafters. Dean glanced at his brother, who returned the look with fear.

The maiden seemed to calm herself, and the lighting stopped flickering. She turned back to the brothers, who were both quietly gripping the hilts of their own weapons: knives, and she nodded deftly.

"Come with me." Syr commanded and immediately moved off, her buckthorn stick clicking with each second step as she wound her way expertly through the tables to the door at the back of the bar.

"That was interesting." Dean murmured as he placed his empty beer bottle back on the counter, nodded his thanks to the Barman, and followed the girl to the back of the room. Though the display had been downright frightening, Syr was at least companionable where it was clear that the old men were more out for blood than anything. Sam trailed, his huge form filling the space as he felt the demon within him stirring. Since the release of Lucifer, that demon part of him had been squirming more and more, it turned his stomach to think that he might not be able to control it. Bobby had said Syr was supposed to help with that.

The door at the back of the bar opened onto a narrow, tightly curved staircase that looked more like a secret passage than an actual trafficked route. Syr mounted the old, warped, creaking steps with surety, and the boys followed her up. Bobby would not have intentionally sent them to someone who meant them harm, but after the display downstairs, Dean was keeping a firm grip on the hilt of his favorite iron knife.

"Make yourselves comfortable, and for God's sake, Dean, you can stop white-knuckling that blade. If _I _wanted you dead, you'd never have been born." Syr quirked a smile at the brothers as she made her way over to a small cast-iron stove and settled down on a stool beside it, lifting a heavy kettle onto the top for the water to begin boiling.

Sam took the opportunity to look around. The room resembled Bobby's house with its myriad of stacked volumes, teetering in piles sometimes taller than the inhabitant. On the ceiling was painted a permanent Key of Solomon, a device used for trapping demons for extended questionings and exorcisms. He approached the flooring beneath the trap warily, wondering vaguely if he'd be able to leave the trap once he was inside. The monster within him writhed in warning, and Sam stepped into the trap willingly, thinking it better that he trap himself instead of do more harm.

"You will not be stayed by that trap, Samuel." Syr shook her head as she opened the oven's door and threw another large piece of coal on the fire. "You have more control than that ugly little beast inside you. You are the dominant force. A little Demon's blood cannot subvert the nature your bloodlines gave you." Sam did not feel comforted by these words. He had lost control too many times to trust them, and it had cost the world the start of the Apocalypse, the final showdown between Angels and Demons.

"Stop brooding." Syr commanded, and Dean glanced at his brother with worry. "I meant what I said downstairs, it is neither of your faults that Lucifer was set free. That fault lies with Zachariah and Castielle and their angel cohorts. The legions of God have forgotten their purpose."

"What do you mean the fault lies with the Angels?" Sam asked, seating himself on the couch. He glanced up at the rafters overhead and saw hundreds of bunches of herbs hanging to dry. A closer examination of the dusty shelves brought his attention to rows upon rows of dusty jars with faded labels, each containing a mixture compound. Some labels were written in English, others were in languages he didn't recognize, written with symbols that he was sure were not used in any other culture.

"They have lost their faith in God." Syr reported sadly as she reached behind her above the stove and removed one of the little blue-glass jars from its place. She removed the stopper from the jar and poured the crushed-herb contents onto a piece of thickly-woven cloth. Sam watched her suspiciously. "Its just tea, Samuel," Syr actually smiled as she said this. "It is nothing harmful, unless you are seriously adverse to Earl Grey." She paused. "You're not." She added, almost as an afterthought.

"How do angels lose faith in God? Aren't they rather close?" Dean asked, leaning forward. He glanced at some of the book titles scattered across the dust-ridden coffee table and cocked an eyebrow. L. Ron Hubbard was the last author he expected to see in a psychic's home.

"There are hierarchies of angels, Dean, as I'm sure you've noticed. The warrior angels, God's legions, with which humans are most familiar, are low in the hierarchy. They are nothing more than messengers and hit-men. The privates and captains and sergeants of God's army: grunt men." Syr explained. "And he's an amusing read: not to be taken seriously of course." She nodded towards the book. Dean grinned.

"You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing." Sam murmured, "I mean, we know almost nothing about you, but you know everything about us."

"It's my job, Samuel. I have been watching for your coming for generations now, and have been waiting. I've had almost a thousand years on this Earth to read the omens, and my interpretations have become astute." She replied simply. The kettle on the stove began to rumble with the low sounds of a confined simmer.

"You're immortal?" Dean asked, shocked. According to his experience, only bad things are immortal.

"Not immortal. Immortal tends to mean that one cannot die. Simply: I don't die easily. Vampires live extended lives, they are 'un-dead' according to your lore, but not according to your science. They can die: you know this, you've killed them. I am similar to that: without the bloodlust and the need to feed as often. I am hard to kill, but I am not a creature you would be concerned with trying to kill either: I am not evil."

"Many things claim that they are not evil." Sam answered, his mind skimming back over the years and stopping on one memory: distant and faded but still raw.

"Madison wasn't evil, Sam." Syr shook her graceful head. "She was dangerous, but not evil. Neither was Owen, the wolf that bit her. He was confused, lost, dangerous, certainly; but not evil." The room seemed to shudder and the lights seemed to dim a little as her voice turned deep and serious. "Lillith was evil. Lucifer himself, in his rage and spite, is evil. Alistair and Azaezel and Uriel for his doubt and his maliciousness: they were evil. Fortunately for the world, they are also all dead."

"Lucifer isn't." Dean reminded her gently, recalling the painting in the 'green room' Zachariah had imprisoned him in: a palace of comforts is just a fancy jail. "We haven't gotten around to that one yet."

"You will." Syr murmured. "It is your destiny to confront Lucifer."

"Can we kill him? He was an archangel before he fell. Can a man kill an archangel?" Sam asked with his voice hushed. The lighting in the room seemed to brighten, and warmth entered the boys that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the calm, motherly smile that Syr now wore.

"You are more than a man, Sam Winchester." Syr reminded him gently.

"But he's not the one assigned the dirty-deed." Dean protested. "I am. Zach and Uriel and Castielle all said so. Even Alistair. I have to stop it. I'm just a man, how can I? How can I _kill_ Lucifer?" Dean stood up, unable to contain his frustrations any longer. He paced around the sofa, avoiding stacks of haphazardly piled books. "I mean, how can we trap a _devil_?"

"Lucifer is not a demon, the Key of Solomon will not work." Syr mentioned quickly, that brought Dean to a stop and Sam drew in a surprised breath.

"The devil's trap won't work on the devil?" Dean asked incredulously. "How is that even possible?"

"Let me talk to you about the nature of Lucifer, and his minion Demons…" Syr invited as the kettle began to whistle loudly. She reached over and plucked it off the stove, setting it on the side-grate for a moment while she readied the cups.

"Every time we heard Azaezel or Alistair or Meg talk about Lucifer they referred to him as their 'father'." Sam pointed out. "So, in order for him to be their father, he'd have to be like them."

"Humans and angels call God their father…do you think you are similar to God?" Syr pointed out. "Are you similar to angels? What about Oraphims and Seraphims and Cherubins? Are you similar to those? Are you, Sam Winchester, holy?" Dean snorted. "God is no more man's father than Lucifer is patriarch to the demons. God _created_ man, but did not birth him. Man birthed man. God merely formed the idea." She carefully poured the hot water into the cups where the home-made teabags sat tied with a tiny thread made of what appeared to be golden horse-hair. She handed the first cup to Sam.

"Thank you." Sam murmured, accepting the aromatic tea and leaning back on the couch. Syr retrieved and filled the second cup and handed it to Dean.

"No thank you, I'm fine." Dean murmured, but Syr held it out to him anyway.

"Take the tea, Dean, you'll find it will help calm your nerves." Syr commanded, and Dean accepted the tiny cup and saucer, looking doubtful.

"So, you're saying that Demons exist because Satan had an 'idea'?" Sam asked, using a small spoon to add sugar to his tea.

"Demons are a manifestation of maliciousness." Syr explained slowly. "The spite and revolt that Lucifer experienced after he was cast out of Heaven was so potent, that it manifested itself into a living form to keep his company." Dean was paying very close attention. "The very first of these was the succubus Lilith, whom was attracted most strongly to Lucifer's self-loathing and hatred for God. She became Lucifer's lover, his closest friend, his ally, and he learned to love her in return as prodigy, daughter, servant. Lilith, spite and malice incarnate, was a devil among devils. The most ruthless creature ever to stalk the Underworld. From her expanding spite and malice, new demons were born. Legion upon legion of them: swelling in numbers. Soon, Lucifer began to realize his dreams for seizing the Throne of Heaven was not lost at all. He began collecting the souls of those cast out of Heaven, the souls of those not worthy of God's love. He began to build himself an army. He sat there, brooding in the darkest confines of Hell, plotting his revenge."

"But he was trapped down there." Sam reminded her. "He was trapped, and the last seal to break was me killing Lilith…" He choked on the words, guilt welling inside of him. His eyes burned as he replayed the scene in his head, his veins burning with power as Demon-blood washed through him. He remembered the absolute rage he felt afterward when he discovered that Ruby, his only ally, had been his enemy the entire time. She'd tricked him. Dean had got there in time to help kill the lying bitch, but it was too late: Lilith was dead. Lucifer was set free.

"Lilith's death was the last seal to break." Syr nodded. "But the fault of Lucifer being set free does not lie with either of you." She turned the full force of her sightless gaze upon Dean, who nearly dropped the tea-cup in alarm. A stillness settled over the room, and Sam felt his heart pounding in his chest, his senses inexplicably heightened. Whoever this woman was: she was a being of great power.

"Do you remember what Zachariah told you?" Syr asked, her voice a low calm growl that pumped adrenaline through the Brothers' veins. "_Remember_."

"He said that it was the plan from the beginning." Dean answered automatically, recalling the scene in his grand prison flawlessly. "He said as soon as I picked up the knives in Hell, the angels had been waiting for the day when they could have their ultimate show-down. He said that they would never have let so many seals break if it hadn't been the plan all along. The angels _wanted_ this."

Sam was staring at his brother in shock. Over the past months, roaming from one decimated town to the next, trying to track the ex-archangel Lucifer, Dean had never shared that information with him.

"Why would they do that?" Sam breathed, his heart thundering in his ears. He groaned, the snake inside him slithered in the pit of his stomach, itching for violence. They hadn't hunted in so long…

"There are a myriad of reasons: jealousy, boredom, but mostly because they are discontent with their lot in the grand scheme of things." Syr answered with a shrug as she poured herself some tea and took a gingerly sip. Steam spiraled up from her cup in long tendrils, which she wove her fingers through as though she was plaiting hair. The mist hovered in the air before her face, cloaking her with a slight dampness, bringing the lost color of her green eyes more into focus. Syr was seeing. "What Zachariah and all his followers do not realize, is that the older forces of the world: the Seraphims, and the Creator itself, they are not gone. They are waiting."

"What are they waiting for?" Dean breathed, half-fearing the answer.

"They are waiting for you, Dean Winchester. The entire world, is waiting for you."

Chapter Two- Messenger

Footsteps on the stairs brought the conversation to a halt, but Syr raised her voice loud enough that the person outside could hear. "Don't stand there dawdling, Robert, get in here."

The door to the cramped apartment creaked open and Sam turned to find Bobby standing in the doorway, a sheepish grin on his face. "Bobby!" Dean exclaimed, almost upsetting his teacup, which was whisked from his hands by a graceful movement from Syr. She placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table as both sons of John stood up to greet their friend.

"Sorry I'm late, fellahs, Syr had me make a stop on the way, and convincing him wasn't easy." Bobby grumbled in his customary greeting. Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

"Uh, can someone please tell me what I'm doing here?" Begged a timid voice from the stairwell.

"Bring him in, Robert." Syr answered deftly. "And shut the door behind you. Sam, Dean, take a seat. Now will we get to the bottom of this."

Bobby moved further into the cramped flat and following him came Carver Edlund, a Prophet, protected by an archangel of immense power. The timid little drunk edged into the flat, took one look at the startling figure that was Syr the psychic, and gulped nervously.

"Syr." Bobby nodded and Dean watched with high amusement while Bobby took her hand and gracefully kissed Syr's knuckles. "It's been ages."

"Welcome, Robert." Syr nodded and Bobby took a seat on a dust-covered chair next to one of the dirt-smeared windows. Rain pattered down across the pane, a low electric hum filled the room and warmth emanated from some of the grates nearby. Sam shivered, his premonitions muddying the back of his mind.

"H-hi there." Chuck stepped forward and clumsily shook Syr's hand, looking at it confusedly. She squeezed his hand tightly and with a smile dropped it in a cursory handshake.

"Welcome, Prophet." Syr murmured, and Sam and Dean took their seats once more. "Robert I was just explaining to the boys the nature of Lucifer." Syr turned conversationally toward her old friend. Sam watched Bobby's face carefully for any sign that the man was shocked by Syr's behavior, or what she said. Something was stirring in the pit of his stomach, and it had nothing to do with his demons.

"So, how do you two know each other?" Dean asked carefully, picking up the teacup and taking a sip. He cleared his throat in surprise at the taste, but quickly sipped again.

"Seraphiel and I go way back." Bobby murmured, smiling fondly at the girl. She grinned, and a blush colored her cheeks. "She's my grandmother."

Dean choked on his tea.

Sam's eyebrows shot skyward.

Paul looked blatantly and obviously confused.

Bobby glanced from one shocked face to the next as though the reactions were quite ordinary, as though they were talking about the weather. "Where did you twits think I get all my books from? Syr's been writing for ages. She's the one who taught me everything I know. A lot of other hunters too!"

"Well." Dean chortled coldly, "Now I know where you get your stunning good looks, Bobby."

"This face is just one of many I can wear, Dean." Syr murmured calmly. Sam's stomach knotted as before his eyes the visage changed, and a young-faced Mary appeared seated right in front of him. The only thing that stayed the same was the eyes: they remained the same color, and held the same power. Dean choked again. Syr's face changed back.

Carver Edlund sat stock-still, his eyes never leaving the woman's face.

"So, what are you?" Sam asked, fearing the answer as he tried to slow his racing heart.

Dean fidgeted with the knife up his sleeve.

"You probably wouldn't do much good with a blade that size, Dean." Syr murmured as she poured more tea for the two new guests. "Besides, no human can ventilate me, not even God's Warrior."

"Seraphiel is a seraph, boys." Bobby explained slowly. "She's one of the high-up types of angels."

"I am not an angel, Bobby, I thought I explained that well enough." Syr sounded absolutely annoyed at the demotion. "I am a Seraph, created before the angels by God. I have a hundred brothers and sisters, but they have scattered themselves across the universe, looking to gain knowledge and wisdom and power. I am the last one in this corner of the universe: the last one to remain. I watch over the Humans and guide their history, teaching a select few the secrets that I know, so they can help shape the forces that will determine the world." She leaned back in her chair and smiled calmly.

"So…you're like an Archangel?"

"Think higher than Archangels." Syr explained slowly, a twinkle in her blind eyes. "When God began to create things, he created company because he was lonely. He made beings of intense power, and light, so bright that even other divine beings could not look upon our glory. We shouted praises to him, in the beginning, our voices ringing clear throughout the universe, but when he was finished creating, he went in search of rest. We guarded his throne for him, but when he did not return, many of us sought new knowledge and rest of our own. Four remained at the throne, to protect it from the likes of usurpers like Lucifer. With the Four there, no archangel has a hope in Hell to claim it. While even one of us is there, the mission is suicide for any but another Seraph."

"So then, what do we have to worry about with this whole apocalypse?" Dean grumbled, "If you're on our side, Lucifer doesn't have a chance, why don't you waste him?"

"I am not given the power to destroy." Syr answered deftly. "I am only given the power to create. Seraphs are light, Dean, we cannot interfere with the natural order."

Frustrated, Dean gritted his teeth, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Then what good are you?" He stood up and began to pace. Chuck huddled on his chair, looking intently at Syr.

"I can teach you, Dean. I can teach you to harness the power within you, the power bred into your lines through eons of careful planning." Syr announced, and Sam gazed at her in shock. "Your father loved your mother deeply, and she returned his feelings. We had to call in a favor on that one, since John technically died-"

"Azaezel brought him back to life." Dean snapped. "Castielle showed me."

"Yes, well, that was the second time John technically died…" Syr's lips curled a little with the mysterious intrigue of someone who knows. "He died the first time in Vietnam." The boys froze, stared at her. "Oh he didn't know. He didn't remember at all. His troop-mates just assumed he was lost forever. Eventually we wiped their memories of John Winchester so there would be less awkwardness. He did die, his body devoid of soul, but we managed to bring him back."

"Why?" Sam choked on the single word.

"Because we needed him for Mary. Because only through the specific combination of their bloodlines could you be born, Dean." Syr explained, Dean had stopped his pacing, was standing by the window. "You do not know how long we have waited for you to come along." Syr breathed. "You are regarded as God's Chosen: the warrior to bring down Lucifer should the apocalypse rise. We knew John would begin your training, that Robert would act as your guide, that your brother would have to fight secret battles of his own." Her foggy eyes turned to Sam, who frowned and felt the demon in him writhing in fury. "We knew that you would take up the knife in Hell. We knew that Alistair would break you. For this: we were prepared."

"And yet Lucifer walks!" Dean snarled. "He's decimating towns and cities, and your angel buddies are doing _nothing_ about it!"

"It is not our place to kill Satan." Syr answered calmly. "That task lies with you."

"Why?" he demanded, glaring at her. The rest of the room disappeared for him as all of his anger focused on this being of confessed power, who sat and did nothing to ease his burdens. "Why can't an angel do it? Why can't an archangel do it? They're more powerful. They know this war better than I do. They understand the enemy. Why does it have to be me?"

"Because Lucifer fell because he was jealous of you." Syr answered calmly. Dean's anger rose, and she let it, lifting the fuzziness that her special tea had instilled in the back of his mind. She let go all bounds holding the spirit of Dean Winchester back, and he flooded forth in his fury to scald everything in the room with the heat of his hate. "Lucifer, the light bringer, one of God's most precious generals, was jealous of the gifts God gave humans. He envied them. Envy breeds spite and malice, that is _why_ it is one of the seven deadly sins. Think on it, Son of Winchester, Lucifer was proud. Pride breeds greed, greed breeds envy, envy breeds lust, lust breeds gluttony, and gluttony breeds sloth and sloth will eventually lead to wrath." She paused and watched him through unseeing eyes.

Sam regarded Syr carefully. He watched her. He wanted to know what secrets she held, what power she was capable of. He wanted to know if she could help him be rid of his demon forever. Could she tear it from him? Was that even possible, or was the magic of Azaezel too powerful even for a Seraph?

"So because we spawned his envy, we must end it?" Dean surmised from his post at the window. "A human has to end it?"

"Of all the beautiful things God created, Dean Winchester, humans were his favorite." Syr answered simply. "You are simple, like children. You are kind, and gentle and care-free. You do not trouble yourselves with the great questions of the world. You have an immense capacity to learn. An immense capacity toachieve. But more than that, and this is the reason all God's creations adore you: you have an immense capacity to _love_."

"And Satan was jealous of that." Chuck guessed, making Bobby jump with his sudden outburst. "Wow."

"Angels and archangels and seraphs and all the other heavenly creatures that God created love Him. They love Him more than they know. But they can only love Him. They do not have the capacity to love any other but God. We have never felt the need to, because out faith and love and trust in Him is so great, that we are filled to our capacities with our devotion to Him." Syr explained. "Humans have the capacity to _choose_. God did not force love of Him on them. They are designed to question, to interpret, to choose. God did not give choice to Angels and Archangels and Seraphs. God demanded that we love Him without questioning. This we have obeyed, mostly."

"But if God did not give the capability of choice, how did Lucifer ever choose to disobey? How did Uriel and Zachariah ever go against his commands and start this war? How did Anna ever question?"

"Anna did not ever question God's love." Syr answered Sam deftly. "She loved Him heart and soul until the other Angels killed her. She questioned the other angels, and their motives, not God."

"And the others? Uriel and Zachariah and Lucifer?" Sam pressed, aching to find a whole in Syr's logic.

"Zachariah believes by eliminating God's enemy he is paying the utmost devotion to God. He loves God, and is fighting for God's army, and thinks that by destroying God's enemy, he will raise himself to the hand of God and be blessed. Humans are not the only beings that seek salvation. Uriel, convinced of his place at Zachariah's side, followed Zach's orders to kill off angels who were hesitant to take up the cause. He considered them unworthy of God's love and attention. Uriel and Zachariah both are mistaken. They love God, but they are not acting on his behalf."

"And Satan?" Sam pressed.

"A flaw." Syr continued. "An anomaly. Even God cannot make every being perfect. Lucifer was made simply…too intelligent."

"He's smart?" Sam pressed.

"He has all the knowledge of the ancients within him. He knows things. He understands things. He will not be easily fooled and he will _not_ be easily beaten." Syr nodded gently.

Bobby glanced from one Winchester to the other and saw the deepening stress lines in both their faces. He cleared his throat, and when Syr did not continue speaking, ventured a word. "Syr, these boys are stressed to the max, why don't we give them a break? I'll run downstairs for some beers, then we can tell them why we brought them here." Bobby offered.

"I think that is wise." Syr nodded, sensing the atmosphere of the room. "Dean, Carver, accompany him. Sam, you and I must talk." Dean and Carver instantly rose to their feet as Sam squirmed in his chair, gripping his half-empty teacup that was now cold against his nerve-hot flesh. The trio left the flat, their footsteps fading down the stairs, and Syr sat stalk-still, listening until she finally heaved a great sigh of relief.

"That Archangel attached to the boy: Raphael. He's quite clamorous when he's around isn't he?" Syr groaned and stretched her aching back. "Do you mind if I join you on the couch? It's blistering here by the stove."

Wordless, Sam moved over. She moved assuredly to the far end of the sofa and eased onto it, as though her 20 year old body were as ancient as the heavens. With a groan, she leaned back against the plush cushions and smiled disarmingly. Sam didn't smile back. He sat there in silence, regarding her quietly, measuring her, trying to get an understanding of a being he had thought were myth his entire life.

Seraphs: God's first creation. His right hands. Praise-singers. What did the immortal Seraphs have to do with this war?

"Ask the question your heart fears to have answered most." Syr advised knowingly, "That way the rest will be a relief."

"Can you take the demon out of me?" Sam asked instantly at her command. The words burst from him before he could stop himself, and he would wonder, later, if she was mind-controlling him during that conversation. Certainly she was a being with enough power to do so…

"No." Came her devastating answer. Sam's bubble of hope imploded, and he sunk further into the couch, unsure of how to proceed. "The demon within you is as a part of you as anything. It is a fixture within you." Syr continued.

"It's killing me." Sam protested. "It's a parasite that I can't get rid of, and it's dangerous."

"Samuel." Syr murmured calmly. "You are who you are because of what is inside you."

"I am _not_ a demon." Sam snarled, fury welling in him, making that ugly beast rear its head and shake off the edge of sleep. It uncoiled in his belly, upsetting him.

"No, you are not." Syr agreed calmly, though Sam was absolutely certain she was aware of the activity within him. "You are Samuel Winchester, second son of John and Mary Winchester, a fine hunter, and a good man." She affirmed. Her voice was so blunt, so threaded with certainty, that Sam felt a swelling of pride within him.

"But you can't take it out of me?" He asked again, desperation clawing at his throat. His eyes burned, and he felt the tears welling. In the last hour he'd been trying to convince himself that such a thing was possible.

"Samuel, the demon inside you makes you who you are. It pushes for control, and you are a man who pushes back. Your father, God keep his soul, made absolutely certain he raised you to be as hard-headed and determined as you are so you could cope with that little monster romping around in the pit of your gut." She nodded towards his stomach, he crossed an arm over his abdomen, fearing that his 'monster' was showing, her sightless eyes smiled at him. "It gives you balance, Samuel, and the world is all about balance."

"I hate it."

"And it hates you." Syr replied levelly. "Sam, think on it: fighting it will only make you stronger."

_That_ caught his attention. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you remember when you first started having your visions?" Syr asked, surprising him. "Honey, I know everything about you, the good, the bad and the ugly. Humor me. When you first started having your visions when you were twenty two. What did you think they were?"

"Psychic visions." Sam answered truthfully. "I thought I was becoming a psychic. But that was Azaesel. It was the demon."

"No, Sam, it wasn't." Syr shook her head gently. "Truthfully you've had psychic ability since the day you came into this world. Your mother, Mary, had a touch of the 'gift' too. That's how she knew you and Dean were both going to be boys."

"But the other children…" Sam protested, confused.

"Were also children born with psychic abilities that Azaezel tracked down and tainted with his blood. He knew that the child he was looking for would have those abilities, and with his DNA in the mix, he knew he might have some control over them. _That_ whisper of control, that tiny little monster in your belly, that is all that remains of Azaezel. The abilities that you had, that Max had, that Andy and Ava and Jake had: all of those abilities they were born with, and the Demon blood was simply subverting it and trying to control it." Syr explained. "Max was always meant to be telekinetic. There aren't many with that power left in the world. If they do have the power, they hide it for fear of being considered a freak. Some have the power but it's never been awakened."

Sam studied his hands as he listened. He wanted to believe her, but he had so many doubts…

"Those doubts, my child, are what are holding you back." Syr murmured. She paused, gazed at him so straightforwardly, that he was certain she was reading his soul. The ugly monster within him froze in fear. "Sam…" She breathed, pain stretching across her face as she read him. "You are so strong, Samuel, you are so strong."

"But when Ava gave into the powers she turned evil, she got malicious, she turned bad…what if that happens to me?" Sam begged, tears stinging his cheeks as they rolled down.

"Ava didn't give into her power, she didn't open her mind to her _nature_, she opened her mind to that little demon. Given the chance, that demon will grow. You've seen it: it's been feeding off the demon blood you've consumed over the past year. It's very strong now, even after your showdown with Lilith. It aches to become powerful again, but you are controlling it."

"Dean is helping." Sam admitted. "He won't let me out of his sight for very long."

"Do you remember what Ruby told you before she died?" Syr asked, and the demon in his belly hissed in hatred. Sam frowned, why would the demon do that?

"She said that I never needed her, that it was always up to me." Sam remembered hearing those words through the blistering pain and searing headache that had accompanied the anguish of exerting that much power to kill Lilith. "Did she mean that I never needed the blood?"

"The blood was a way for that little spark of a demon inside you to control your already potent psychic abilities, it just lent the little bastard what it needed to assume power." Syr nodded directly. "If you can learn to open your mind to the psychic side of you, and ignore that little beastie, you'll be able to subvert him completely, and bend him to _your _will. Samuel, Dean is not the only man with a part to play in this war."

"I thought my part was played, and that my role was done." Sam murmured.

"My dear boy." Syr leaned forward and took his hand in hers. It felt warm to the touch, and smelled of lilacs and early morning dew. "Do you think your brother could do this without you?"

"What are we waiting for?" Dean protested downstairs as Bobby and Carver leaned against the bar, chatting absently with the barman, who looked to be rubbing the same glass clean as when they came in. In their corner, the other hunters eyed him critically, and he wondered if he'd have to start dodging bullets. "We have the beers, let's get back up there before Cuddles over there decides to go for round two…"

"She's still talking with Sam." Chuck answered absently, his eyes focused in the middle-distance between himself and his pint of dark brown beer. "She's almost done, don't worry."

"What in all hell could they be talking about?" Dean mumbled, perching on the stool on the other side of Bobby. "Speaking of which, Chuck, any word from your angel buddies about what's going down?"

"I don't get word from _them_." Chuck snorted into his pint as he took a long draught. "My visions come from more reputable sources."

"So you know the outcome then?" Dean pressed, edging forward. "You know exactly what's going to happen?"

Carver considered the question for a moment and then shook his head. "No. I don't think it actually works that way."

Dean slammed his fist on the counter in frustration, causing some of the patrons to jump. "Hey!" Barley Hudson shouted in reprimand. "Keep it down!"

"Dean…" Bobby growled as Dean stood up aggressively.

"Oh come on, Bobby, I'm spoiling for a decent fight. Let me take a swing at him." Dean snapped. "I can take the old loony!" He said louder and the scraping of chair feet on wood floor announced that his challenge was answered.

Barley and three other men were crossing the bar toward them when suddenly there was a loud crash from the stairwell and the four patrons flew across the room and were pinned against the wall. Dean drew his knife and turned to find Sam standing there, hand outstretched, a look of concentration on his face as he held the patrons pinned in place.

"Sam!?" Dean shouted and stepped forward. "What are you doing?"

"They aren't human, Dean!" Sam grunted as sweat beaded on his brow and his nose began to bleed. Dean whirled to find the eyes of the pinned men black with possession. Bobby and Carver immediately came on guard as the entire bar began to shake with the archangel's fury.

In an instant Syr appeared in the middle of the bar between Sam and the demons, she raised one hand to the ceiling and in a voice that rang like a thousand church-bells, shouted 'STOP!' to the rafters. The presence of the archangel faded in the power of the Seraph, and she turned to the demons in her tavern with a grim smile on her face.

"Gentlemen." She nodded towards them as they quivered in their agony. Sam groaned and fell to his knees, his hand still outstretched, tears leaking from his eyes as the blood stained his shirt, rolling down his neck to his chest. Dean went immediately to his brother, Bobby with him, to try and help. "Just a moment longer, Samuel." Syr murmured, arriving at Sam's side. She placed a hand on the side of his face, her fingertips bracing around his eye. Dean watched, horrified, as the fog cleared from Syr's gaze and the pure emerald green shone with a light so intense it hurt to look.

Sam roared in agony as the demon within him thrashed, but he concentrated on holding the four demons against the wall.

"It's alright, Samuel." Syr murmured softly, touching his outstretched wrist. "I will guide you. Now…_push_."

Bobby and Dean fell back a step as a small eruption of power rent the air and thunder cracked through the bar. The demons on the far wall shrieked in agony and fell streaming from the mouths of their hosts, draining from the bodies one tortured essence at a time.

Dean watched, horrified, as his brother's face grew paler and paler, dark circles forming around his eyes. He took a step closer, and heard what Syr was whispering to him.

"Do not fear this, Samuel. This is all you. It has nothing to do with the beast inside you. Feel its fear, its anger, transform that into power. It has controlled you for so long: now it is time to show it how strong Sam Winchester really is. Embrace this, Sam. This is all you."

The demon-smoke sank into the ground, the portal of hell opening up to receive it, trapping it, however briefly back in the confines of the Pit. Dean and Bobby stared open-mouthed at Sam, who lay quivering on the floor.

"Dean, Bobby, Harold, will you please help take Sam back upstairs, the poor boy is exhausted." Syr ordered, her eyes once again misted. She turned to glance back at the heap of hunters on the floor, who sat there groaning and rubbing their eyes. "I will join you in a moment…"

"Water." Bobby ordered as they stretched Sam's tall frame out on the small sofa. He filled the poor couch, and made the cushions groan with his weight. Carver disappeared and approached a moment later with a glass of water. Sam groaned as Bobby and Dean lifted his head and wet his mouth.

"Harry, do you have a wash-cloth or something to get this blood off?" Bobby ordered, and the bartender immediately went to retrieve one. Sam's eyes rolled a little and Dean waited, biting his lip and trying not to punch something.

After a long moment, the door to the flat creaked open again, and Syr entered and went straight to one of the shelves in the room muttering about careless old farts without proper protections. "You'd think," She announced louder, "In this day and age, what with all the demons running around and Satan himself on the loose, that those idiots might invest in some talismans at least!" She snarled. She retrieved a small jewelry box from the shelf and tossed it to Harold, who handed Dean the cloth. "Go downstairs and tend to those idiots." She snapped. "Give them one each, and if they ever take those things off I will _personally_ brand them to their skin next time!" The lights flickered a little at her anger.

"Dean." Carver stammered, approaching with a bowl of warm water. "Here."

"Sit down prophet before your knees give out." The Seraph ordered in a most grandmotherly way. "And _you_," She addressed the ceiling angrily. "You can _leave_ until I call you back. You're interrupting my vision and giving me a headache. _Take a hike_!" She snapped and Chuck gasped.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked the little man, his attention distracted temporarily from the ministrations of his brother.

"She just ordered the Archangel to go away." Chuck answered in shock, his voice full of awe, "I've been trying to do that for _months_ and she asks _once_ and he takes off!"

"I could decimate him with a blink of my eye." Syr answered snippily, "Of course he's going to listen to me. What are you going to do? Talk him to death?"

Carver wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Do you care to explain what just happened down there?" Dean snarled, getting aggressive at Syr's attitude. "Why is my brother suddenly able to throw demons around again? _What did you give him_?"

"If you're thinking I poisoned him with more of that foul demons blood then you'd be perfectly mistaken." Syr snapped. "Your brother is quite capable of handling demons on his own."

"_Four_." Dean choked. "_At. Once._"

"Dean." Sam mumbled from the couch, catching everyone's attention. "Dean, it's okay."

"What the hell is going on here?" Bobby demanded, getting up as Dean knelt to deal with his brother. "Serapheil, you've got to explain this to me."

"Sam will explain it to you, Robert." Syr snapped, her head turning toward the window. "We have a larger problem on our hands…"

Carver squealed in horror as the skies around the tavern darkened, and black demon-smoke began throwing itself at the windows. Bobby cursed and checked his own talismans while with a wave of her hand, Syr secured the windows and back rooms of the flat. Footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the older hunters with Harold, all bearing weapons. Dean regarded them suspiciously until Syr announced that no demons could penetrate the defenses she was sustaining.

"What do we do?" Bobby asked gravely as Sam groaned on the couch, turning his head to the pillows as the demon inside him thrashed violently. Dean fidgeted with the hilt of his dagger.

"You will sit down and let me work, Robert." Syr answered, her voice deadly calm. "Dean…did you or Sam bring any silver with you?" She asked, and Dean stared at her as if she'd gone insane.

"Dean. Silver. Now." Syr snapped after a long moment. Dean plunged his hand into Sam's jacket pocket and brought out the little bag of silver. She caught it as he tossed it to her and instantly whirled and threw it onto the fire. The room darkened as more smoke clouded the dirty windows, but as daylight was pushed out, a new light was brought in: from Syr herself.

Her luminescent skin began to glow, and became so bright that all humans had to shield their eyes. Dean took his leather jacket and brought it up over his head and Sam's head, bowing against the radiance of the woman before him.

Dean gasped as something brushed him: not physically, but inside his head.

"This protection is the last gift I can give you, Sons of Winchester." Syr's voice murmured. "Dean: trust your brother. Sam: trust yourself. It will take both of you to track and kill Lucifer. The Prophet will guide you. Remember: as it is written, so it will be…" And with that the presence was gone, and with it went the thundering of a thousand demons descending on the bar, and the smell of their putrid sulfur stink.

"Did any of you understand that?" Bobby inquired as Harold handed him another beer. The potent liquor was the only thing any of the men could stomach at that moment. He glanced across the bar at the blanket-draped form placed on one of the longer tables. Syr was dead.

"All I'm getting from His Royal Pain In The Neck up there," Carver muttered, jabbing his finger skyward to indicate the Archangel, "is that she sacrificed herself during a certain type of ritual…spell work? No. Ritual. Ritual is a better word. Anyway Syr sacrificed herself to bestow some sort of protection on us."

"On who?" Dean asked, "All of us or just one or what?"

"From what I'm getting from Cranky-Pants." Chuck groaned, "Aside from an ear-splitting headache, is that she laid a protection over all of us. He's using a big word. Ow. I don't know what he's talking about."

"It's something called a _romora cotuas_." Sam murmured from where he was seated beside one of the windows, soaking in sunlight and beer and whatever else he could keep down. Dean regarded his brother for a long moment, Sam looked healthier, more relaxed. "Basically she transferred a little bit of her life-force into each of us to protect us. I think it was just for everyone in the room though, so Harold and the guys downstairs didn't benefit."

"How could you possibly know that?" Dean asked, easing back onto the couch, a little more relaxed now that Sam wasn't killing demons with his freaky mind-thing.

"She told me she was going to do it if it came down to a show-down with a horde." Sam replied steadily. It was a lie, and Dean knew it. He knew a lot about his brother that he didn't want to know. The brush of consciousness between himself and Syr had left his mind open, and now he could sense things about Sam that he couldn't before. Sam had already worked out that Syr had opened the connection on purpose: a way for them to communicate and orchestrate an assault without letting the enemy know.

Sam's creepy new psychic weirdness was still disturbing though, no matter what the Seraph implied.

"So she's gone then." Bobby murmured. "I thought she was supposed to help you boys find ways to off Satan, and at least help you track him."

"Oh I can track him." Dean nodded gently. "And between Sam and I, we can take him."

"What makes you so sure?" Carver asked bluntly. "I mean, I haven't had any visions…"

"As it is written," Dean quoted gravely.

"So it will be." Sam finished, and Chuck's eyes bulged as the full meaning of the words fell onto his shoulders.

_Fin. _

Next Time on Supernatural:

"So you're asking me to make it up as I go?" Carver Edlund gaped as he flexed his fingers over the keyboard. Writing was something he'd been born to do, but he never guessed that he would be writing the _future_ of the world. He glanced from one Winchester brother to the next, wondering if they'd both gone insane since their little meeting with one of the most powerful creatures in creation: the Seraph Syr.

"Not make it up…" Sam hesitated, glancing at Dean for confirmation. "Just, mislead fate a little bit. We just need to buy some time."

"Mo Jo up there isn't going to like this." Chuck shuddered at the thought of another reaction from his guard-dog Archangel, Raphael.

"Well, he doesn't have much of a choice." Dean answered deftly. "I mean, if the angels really do want us to win, what can they do to stop us? I'm the one that has to kill Lucifer, remember?"

"What are you doing, Dean?" A low, dark voice demanded from behind them. Chuck jumped and squeaked as both Winchester brothers turned to find the familiar face of Tom, who happened to be inhabited by the angel Castiel.

"What are we doing?" Dean asked as Castiel took a step forward, his face grave. "We're making our play. I hope you guys are ready."

"We are, you are not." Castiel accused. "You're going to ruin everything."

"If we don't take him now, there's not going to be anything left of earth to save." Dean snarled. "I don't know about anyone else, but _I'm_ tired of you bastards using our planet as a battlefield. This all ends. Tonight."


End file.
